Constance was curious about the workshop; she didn’t know what Vincent O’Connor did there, and as yet she had not asked. This was another facet of decorum; the withholding of curiosity.
Hannah called to her: ‘You must be dead on your feet. Away in with you; I’ll be with you directly.’
The greeting did not require an answer but Constance smiled and nodded at the woman. She liked Hannah; you couldn’t help liking her. That was another thing. She didn’t know as yet what position Hannah held in the O’Connors’ household, or who she was. There was only one thing evident; she seemed to be needed by them all, because someone was always calling, ‘Hannah! Hannah!’
The kitchen was crowded. The men sat at one end of the table, Sean with them; the children were sitting on the fender, and on the clippie mat before it; and Florence O’Connor stood at a side table with large shives of buttered currant bread, and as Constance entered she turned to her and said, ‘Well! It’s done?’ and Constance answered, ‘Yes, and I’m not sorry.’
‘It’s all grand furniture she’s got, Mother,’ put in Davie above the babble. Although he was thirteen, and there were two boys younger than himself, he was the smallest of all the O’Connors. As Moira had stated with her disarming frankness, their Davie was undersized, but he was bright for all that.
As his mother said sternly, ‘Mrs Stapleton, Davie,’ he slanted his round black eyes towards Constance and replied on a hick of a laugh, ‘Aw, she doesn’t mind: Mrs Stapleton is such a mouthful; we should find a name for her.’ Again his glance slid up to Constance, and as they all laughed she laughed with them. Everything and everyone was so free and easy here: it was like being dropped onto another world, and finding yourself surrounded by a different species.
She was gratefully drinking a cup of tea when Hannah entered the kitchen and, seeing the children all sprawled around the fire, she cried at them, ‘Away up out of that, the lot of you, sittin’ clucking there in the middle of the day like fleas in fleece! Come on! Come on! Up with you.’ And she hauled Joseph up by the collar and slapped at Michael’s head, and, in their various ways, they groaned, saying, ‘Aw! Hannah man, give over; leave be;’ but they obeyed her.
‘I want wood in’—she was digging her finger into Michael’s chest—‘and don’t forget it’s bath night. And you, Davie, and you, Joseph, get those pails in your hands an’ start luggin’ that water up here.’
Protesting but laughing, they were bundled from the room; even Biddy and Moira; and as Moira went out of the door, with a backward glance towards her, Constance wondered yet again at the situation where this untidy woman could order the children about, and which elicited not one word of censure from their mother. On this occasion, at least, she would have expected Florence O’Connor to say, ‘Oh, let the girls stay; they have been working hard,’ but no; Hannah shooed them out, and Florence made no protest.
The men, too, rose and followed the children; and Constance went with them; and when they reached the house again and she had tipped them substantially they showered her with good wishes. Then, for the last time, they made their way down the hill to the van, and she was alone in Shekinah.
Standing in the middle of the long room, she looked about her. Tonight she would have to sleep here by herself; not that she hadn’t slept by herself for years, but there had always been someone in the house. Two days ago Jim had gone to see his publisher and he wasn’t due to return until tomorrow; and even then he might not come out to the house. What would happen if he refused to stay here for even a short time? She knew the atmosphere would be lighter without him, but with Peter soon to be away at university, except at weekends, would she be able to bear living on her own all the time?
Of a sudden she felt very tired. She couldn’t remember working so hard as she had done this past week or so, and, as Jim hadn’t been slow to point out, she wouldn’t have a Mrs Thorpe doing for her out here. He had given her a month, at the outset, to cope with a Calor gas oven, supplemented by a kitchen range that she must feed with wood and coke if she wanted hot water; and he had laughed at the idea of her being able to light a Calor gas lamp in safety, let alone deal with the intricacies of a Tilley lamp. He had pointed out, with heavy sarcasm, the discomfort of getting out of a warm bed and walking at least twenty yards to the lavatory, such as it was.
With a feeling of tiredness, all the drawbacks attached to the place ranged themselves before her like an array of obstacles she knew she’d never be able to surmount. Slowly, she lowered herself into a large, old-fashioned, upholstered chair, and, lying back, she closed her eyes and placed her hand across them and told herself not to be afraid; this feeling was just a reaction. But her thoughts began to race. She wished Peter were here. He hadn’t wanted to go on the walking tour, but he had made the arrangements with two other students weeks previously, and she had insisted that he keep to them. If Jim did not come out tomorrow night—if, in fact, he did come out at all—would she be able to stay until Peter returned? She answered this question by telling herself that she could, if necessary, go back to the flat each night to sleep.
A movement in the doorway made her sit bolt upright. Florence O’Connor was standing looking at her.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘Oh. Oh, you didn’t. I…I was just feeling a little tired.’
‘Naturally. May I come in?’
‘But of course, of course.’ Constance held out her hand in a wide sweeping movement to the older woman, then said, ‘You know, somehow I’ll always think that this is really your house.’
‘That’s very nice of you, Mrs Stapleton.’ They were standing looking at each other now. Then Florence O’Connor moved her gaze round the room, and after a while she said, ‘Davie was right.’ She smiled her hesitant smile. ‘You seem to know what the house needs; I somehow thought you would.’
‘Thank you. I’m…I’m glad you like the things, but they aren’t properly set yet. I need more rugs, too, and tomorrow I’ll hang the curtains. Would you like to see upstairs?’
‘No, no; I won’t trouble you now. I just thought I would come up and say you are very welcome, if…if you understand.’
Again they were looking at each other, and Constance said softly, ‘Yes. Yes, Mrs O’Connor. I understand, and I thank you.’
Florence O’Connor turned away from her as she said, ‘I never thought I’d be able to tolerate anyone taking the Hall; it holds so many memories for me; but…but it’s all right.’ She turned again towards Constance and the smile on her face was a little more relaxed. ‘Would you mind if I look in the kitchen just to see what you need in the way of wood and oil? You see this will be an entirely different way of life from what you’ve been used to. There are things you will find that are as necessary as air, such as dry wood, water, and oil. You always want to keep a good supply of water in. The children will get it for you, and the wood, too, on their way to school, but I don’t want them to become a nuisance to you. I have warned them they must not come over unless they are invited.’
‘Oh, no. Oh, please don’t stop them coming, not any of them. They’ll be company for me, especially Moira.’
‘Oh, Moira. Moira talks too much.’ Florence again smiled. ‘But I think I should warn them, because if you give them the slightest encouragement you’ll never have a moment’s peace. You see, they don’t meet many people this far out, except for the occasional hiker.’
‘But they must be used to coming up to the house?’ said Constance as they entered the kitchen.
‘Oh, yes. The boys camp out up here in the summer, and Vincent lived here for a whole year on his own.’ Her voice stopped abruptly, and she changed the conversation, saying, ‘Your gas cylinder isn’t connected up.’
‘Oh, no.’ Constance clicked her tongue. ‘I meant to ask the men to do it. Oh, dear.’
‘Don’t worry, that’s easily seen to. My husband or Vincent will fix it in a few minutes.’ Florence now pointed to the side of the fireplace, saying, �
��They’ve got you some wood in, but that won’t last long on that fire. If you intend to stay any length of time I’ll see they get a stock in for you.’
‘Thank you. I’d be grateful if they would. We may be coming and going until the late autumn. I’m…I’m not sure yet.’
‘Your husband isn’t taken with the venture, then.’ It was a plain statement.
Again they were looking at each other. Then Constance, her eyes lowered, said, ‘Not very. But, of course, he hasn’t tried living in the country.’
Florence O’Connor nodded, then turned and entered the long room again and straight out and onto the terrace, and there she stood in silence gazing over the hills, until she remarked quietly, ‘It’s the most beautiful view in the world.’
‘I’ve come to think so too.’
Again there was silence between them. Then Florence O’Connor, once more facing Constance, said softly, ‘Don’t be lonely. Come down whenever you feel you want company. It isn’t good to be too much alone. And if you want anything, or help, you just have to ask; we’re all there,’ and before Constance could thank her yet again she had turned and, her grey head held very erect above her thin straight back, was walking across the terrace.
It was some minutes before Constance went back into the house and to the big chair once more, where she again covered her eyes with her hand, but this time for a different reason. She could almost say she felt happy, with a sort of happiness she had never experienced before…
Half an hour later she was upstairs making her bed when she heard the voice from down below saying, ‘Hello, there.’ From the top of the stairs she saw Vincent O’Connor. He was dressed, as she had seen him once before, in a dark grey suit, with a blue shirt and matching tie and black shoes. Without the heavy boots and rough cord trousers and coat he didn’t look quite so huge, nor did his face look so big; perhaps it was because his hair had been brushed into some semblance of flatness. As she neared the foot of the stairs he said, ‘I’ve fixed it.’
‘You mean the gas cylinder?’
‘Yes.’
She hadn’t heard him coming into the house and he explained his presence by saying, ‘I knocked on the back door but you weren’t about.’
‘Oh, that’s all right.’ She had been quick to reassure him: if he had been so used to walking in and out of this house it would be difficult for him to get out of the habit.
‘See that the gas is turned off at the cylinder every time you’ve finished with the oven or the grill plate.’
‘Yes; yes, I will.’
‘Have you used Calor gas before?’
‘No.’
‘Then be extra careful.’
Again she said, ‘Yes; yes, I will.’
He turned his back on her and walked to the door, where he paused, saying, ‘You’ll be on your own tonight?’
‘Yes; my husband’s in London, and my son, as you know, is on holiday.’
‘You won’t feel easy. I’ve told the boys to bring Rip up, and his box. Nothing, or no-one, will get past him. But—’ he glanced at her across his shoulder—‘I can assure you no-one will try up here; nevertheless you’ve got to get used to that fact.’ He turned fully round now and his face seemed to soften, as did his voice, as he said, ‘I hope you’ll be happy here; I’ve never known anyone who has lived in this house who wasn’t…I mean, permanently in it.’
‘Thank you; I’m sure I shall.’
‘The children will bring you milk in the morning when they come to fetch Rip. As my mother has already told you, you only have to ask for anything you want, and if we’ve got it, it’s yours.’
She smiled at him and drew in a long breath before she said, ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am to…to all of you.’
He stared at her in silence for a few seconds, then said, ‘I won’t be back until the weekend. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
As she had watched his mother, so she now watched him stride along the terrace. But he seemed to cover the distance in half a dozen steps. She moved her head slowly. Were there ever people so kind? Even he, in his grumpy, hard-faced way, was kind. Where was he going for the next two days? It didn’t seem right somehow that he was dressed up for town. He looked very presentable; yes, indeed, different altogether from when he was in his working clothes. She wondered why he had wanted the thousand pounds so badly. Perhaps he wanted to get married and it was for a house…But in that case he could have had this house. Not necessarily so, he might want to be nearer his work…But didn’t he work on the farm, in the outbuilding? What did he do in the outbuilding? She had never asked, and as yet no-one had vouchsafed the information.
The following morning she was awakened, in a strange bed, to the sound of muffled voices rising from the terrace. With sleep still on her, she stretched her limbs and thrust her hands high above her head. She had slept soundly all night. Amazing. She hadn’t done that for years…And by herself, too.
The voices swept the remaining sleep from her and she sat up and, leaning from the bed to the window sill just a foot away, she stretched her neck and put her head out of the open window and looked down on to the children below; at Joseph who had a milk can in his hand, and at Davie who was saying, ‘Don’t leave it there, man, leave it round the back; she’ll find it as she goes to the lav; she’s bound to go there first.’
‘Shut up, both of you!’ Moira said in a loud whisper. ‘She must still be dead asleep…Mind what mother said, and Hannah. Come on, leave it there. You take Rip.’
‘It hasn’t got a lid on,’ said Davie. ‘The tits’ll be at it.’
‘Then you should have thought about a lid,’ whispered Moira. ‘Come on with you now; we don’t want to upset her by pokin’ our noses in on the first day or else we’re finished.’
‘Look who’s talkin’ about pokin’ noses in!’
On Davie’s ‘Huh!’ Constance called, ‘Good morning,’ which caused three bright faces to upturn to her, and they all said, ‘Aw! Good mornin’.’
‘Did you sleep all right?’ asked Davie.
‘Yes; better than I’ve slept for years. The air’s wonderful.’
‘I could make you a cup of tea,’ said Moira, a suggestion which brought a none too gentle push from Davie, which could be taken as, Who’s pushing noses in now!
‘You didn’t feel frightened with Rip being here, did you?’ Joseph asked.
‘No; not at all. And he never barked once.’
‘It was Vin’s idea.’ Joseph nodded up at her. ‘He’s gone to Manchester.’
‘Oh, has he?’ said Constance politely.
‘For the machinery,’ Moira put in.
‘The machinery?’ said Constance.
‘Yes. You know, for the workshop. And you know what? He might bring back electric light.’
‘Don’t talk dippy.’ Again Moira was pushed by Davie. ‘Bring back electric light!’ He brought his disdainful glance from his sister and, looking up at Constance, explained, ‘He’s after a second-hand generator. He doesn’t know if he’ll get it, not with the money he wants to pay, ’cos he’s after a second-hand Land Rover an’ all, ’cos ours has had it. But if he does, he’ll be set.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Constance, nodding as if she understood the whole situation.
‘An’ you know, if he got it an’ we got electric light he could run it here for you. What do you think of that?’
‘That would be wonderful, Davie.’
There was a mumble from Joseph now. Constance could only see the crown of his head. Then she was looking down on Davie’s crown and his words were mumbled too, but from them she made out that he was denying anything and, from Joseph’s mumblings, that they had been told to keep their mouths shut.
‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea, Mrs Stapleton?’
Constance smiled down at Moira. ‘It’s kind of you, but I’d like to lie in a little longer.’
‘Oh, you’d have no need to come down and let me in; I could push the fr
ont door open as I showed you.’
‘Sticking nebs in.’ Davie’s voice was high and Moira turned on him, crying, ‘Aw,you, our Davie!’
‘Come on!’ said Davie, dragging his sister by the shoulder. Then lifting his gaze, he said offhandedly, ‘Your milk’s there. I’d get it afore the birds spot the can.’
‘Thank you, Davie; I will.’
When she lay back on her pillows her face was alive with laughter. What more entertainment did one need than to get two or three of the O’Connor family together, the natural, uncomplicated O’Connor family?
And that was how she thought about them until early evening, when Jim arrived. He came in and caught her unawares in the arduous task of rubbing wax into the dry floorboards of the long room. He stood staring at her down the length of it; then walking slowly towards her, he said, ‘Well, now I’ve seen everything. You scrubbing a floor!’
She got to her feet and, putting the lid on the polish tin, said stiffly, ‘I’m not scrubbing a floor, I’m rubbing polish into it.’
‘Takes the same effort.’ He smiled at her now. ‘Well!’ He looked around the room; then walked to the dresser in the far corner, and from there to the side of the fireplace, where he ran his hand over a Victorian inlaid work table. And now, thumping the well upholstered back of the couch that was set opposite the fireplace, he said, ‘Put this on the outskirts of Newcastle and I’d say you’d done a fine job.’
She made no comment on his remarks but asked, ‘Have you had any tea?’
‘No; but it doesn’t matter. I stopped for a drink on the way up.’
She sat down in the big armchair and pulled off her rubber gloves and dropped them onto the floor. Then looking at him, she said, ‘Well, how did you get on?’
‘Oh!’ He unloosened the lower button of his coat, then flapped his hands under the sides of it as a man wearing tails might do. ‘Not too badly at all. They were very civil. I saw Conway himself. He was extra civil. He smells another From The Seed All Sorrow in this one…and making a tidy pile for himself…Aye.’ He rubbed his hand over his chin and dropped into the chair opposite her, adding, ‘When I think what they must have made out of that first book it makes me see red.’
The Solace of Sin Page 8